


What Kind of Man (Loves Like You)

by chickcheney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: D/s themes, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 09:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17159561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickcheney/pseuds/chickcheney
Summary: This thing with Sam—it’s simple, until it isn’t.





	What Kind of Man (Loves Like You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticduxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, [majestic_duxk](https://majestic-duxk.livejournal.com/)! This fic is based on your suggested prompt “anything where Dean thinks he is the top/dom in the relationship and then he totally isn't." Featuring: toppy!Sam, subby!Dean, and a healthy amount of cognitive dissonance. 
> 
> Full disclosure: I wanted to write you a fluffy Gencestiel curtain fic, but then I remembered [extrememly Marc Evan Jackson voice] _I'm a naughty bitch_.
> 
> (I also slipped in my headcanon that if Wincest ever happened it would have taken place after the s8 finale, but that's only a small part of this fic)
> 
> I hope you enjoy what I came up with!

This thing with Sam—it’s simple, until it isn’t.

Well, it’s as simple as macking on your brother can possibly be, anyway.

They didn’t start out like this, all tangled up in each other. There was a line at some point, even if Dean isn’t sure how or when they crossed it. All he knows is, one second heaven was falling and Sam was ready to bite the bullet, and the next he was tasting Sam’s lips and desperation for the first very first time.

There’s been plenty of times after that, though it was slow going at first. The months that spanned the awkward shift from brothers to brothers-who-fuck-sometimes (Dean refuses to call Sam something as juvenile as his boyfriend, or—ugh—his _lover_ ) had been almost unbearable. Dean hadn’t known if he’d lost a brother or gained something more; if everything had changed or if everything was exactly the same.

They spent almost the entire year after the trials circling one another. Lies, distrust, and miscommunication formed a wall between that had seemed almost insurmountable. Even after they made their peace and learned to trust one another again that stupid fucking kiss hung over their heads like nooses. 

But the Winchesters had stared down monsters and demons and God himself. A little daunting incest was nothing. Then one night Dean decided to say ‘Fuck it’ and grab Sam by the collar and pour all the jumbled up feelings rattling inside his chest into a kiss he hoped to God his brother could understand. 

All it took was being a little assertive. 

Their relationship has been decidedly less _in_ sertive than Dean would have liked, and that couldn’t be fixed with a quick kiss and a handjob. It wasn’t as if there was an existing protocol on how long to wait after establishing an unholy, incestuous union to try and fuck your brother in the ass. Even with the uncertainty of that hanging over his head, Dean wasn’t worried, because when the day comes he knows how it’ll go. 

Because Dean is definitely, unequivocally, obviously going to be the one in control in that situation.

Dean has had sex with men three times in his life. The first and only time he let a guy fuck him was with a kid in some nameless town he’d bummed a joint off of outside Sam’s junior prom. Dad had forbidden Sam to go, but his crafty pain-in-the-ass little brother managed to give them both the slip. After Dad deployed Dean to go grab him and drag his ass back to the trailer they were sweating in for the summer, Dean had only gotten a foot in the door before spotting Sam slow-dancing with some girl. Deciding maybe Dad would be okay with him not coming back immediately, Dean had found himself a good time while he waited for the song to end. 

That ‘good time’ resulted in losing his butt virginity in the back of the kid’s mom’s Subaru to the tune of I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing. The kid wasn’t exceptionally good-looking and he wasn't that great at it, and it was only through pure force of will that Dean managed to come at all..

The experience wasn’t anything close to traumatic, but the subsequent times after—all with faceless, nameless brown-haired boys six feet and over with their faces pressed into motel sheets—those had been better.

So yeah, now that it really counts, Dean is going to be the one in charge. There’s no other way.

 _Except_ —

Except, sometimes when he and Sam are getting hot and heavy in his room Sam’s hand start to get rough and grabby and _demanding_ and Dean goes a little weak-kneed, a little breathless—

Except sometimes when Dean’s on his knees with that monster Sam calls a cock pushing toward the back of his throat he’ll start to keen when Sam winds his slim fingers into the short strands of his hair to _tug_ —

Except that one time after a hunt in Fort Scott when a werewolf nearly took Sam’s entire fucking head off. Dean could taste his own scream like blood in his mouth before pumping the sonofabitch full of silver, and when they finally got back to the bunker Sam had grabbed his thighs and lifted him up off the ground like he weighed less than nothing and Dean got so hard he thought he was going to come right then and there—

Yeah. Except for all those times, Dean is pretty sure he’s the one in command here.

****

— — — — — —

The bunker is loud and crowded tonight, which is starting to be not all that different from every other night. Dean would never say it out loud because it would make Sam feel shitty, but their little home is feeling a lot less like a home and a lot more like a boot camp for wayward hunters by the day.

Dean isn’t heartless, he knows they have nowhere else to go. He knows, still, how strange and disorienting it feels to be so far from home. Before the bunker, he rarely had a permanent address, but he remembers that ghost-limb feeling of loss and displacement from all the times in his life when Sam had been absent. 

So he’s not a jerk, and he is sympathetic to their plight, but that doesn’t mean he wants to wake up every morning to the sound of a couple dozen strangers rattling around in his kitchen and disorganizing his spice racks. 

But maybe he doesn’t have to voice his displeasure because while normally Sam would be out in the trenches earning his Chief title and making all the strangers all feel at home, tonight he’s in Dean’s room watching _Sin Senos No Hay Paraíso_ on his tiny TV.

They’re curled up on the bed with two open bags of Funyuns and a six-pack that’s half gone. They’re propped halfway up against the headboard on their sides because they’re big guys and it’s hard to fit both of them comfortably in Dean’s prized memory foam mattress. His arm is cushioned snuggly against Sam’s side while Sam’s arm rests on the headboard behind his back. The fingers on Sam’s left hand tap a mindless beat against Dean’s arm where it’s slung over Sam’s middle.

“So Enrique is cheating on Maria with her twin sister?” Sam asks during a commercial break.

Dean shakes his head. “No, _Enrique’s_ twin brother Julio is sleeping with Maria behind his brother’s back, but what he doesn’t know is that it’s really Maria’s cousin, Ana. She got facial reconstruction surgery so she could exact her revenge against him for leaving her at the altar ten years ago.”

Sam hums and falls quiet. It’s obvious he doesn’t give two shits about the storyline, but it warms Dean to know he’s making an effort to feign interest. All part of his ‘Sorry you had to come back to a bunch of strangers in your house’ act, probably, but Dean doesn’t care.

He turns his head and places a kiss to the column of Sam’s neck, quick and impulsive. Sam makes a soft, startled sound. The arm he’s got leaning against the headboard comes down to wrap around Dean properly, though it’s bent at an awkward angle so that his little brother’s gargantuan palm can span across his lower back. This way he’s full cocooned in Sam’s arms can smell the cheap detergent on his clothes and the cinnamon-sweet scent of his shampoo. He presses his lips against the space where the skin of Sam’s collarbone meets his shirt and inhales subtly.

“It’s hard to tell, but the same actress plays Maria _and_ Ana _and_ her triplet sisters,” Dean murmurs, voice muffled against cotton. Sam snorts him slightly. Dean smiles. 

“TV magic,” Sam says sagely.

“Personally, I think Ana has the bigger rack.”

“Doctors probably threw in a breast augmentation with the face surgery.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head. On screen, Maria and Enrique make love on a bed of roses while Ana stares menacingly through a crack in the blinds.

Sam’s thumb rubs against the exposed skin at the small of his back where his shirt’s ridden up. Dean shifts, skin warming under Sam’s ministrations. He chances a look up, but Sam’s looking at the TV with casual interest.

“Ain’t got nothing on you, though, Sasquatch.”

Dean palms Sam’s chest in emphasis. Sam’s pec is solid under his palm, nothing like the soft-chested girls he used to feel up. No, Sam’s all firm, hard lines. Different, even, from the handful of guys Dean’s been with in the past. He squeezes again just to feel the muscles shift beneath his hand, then lets his hand slide down to rest on the even firmer plane of his brother’s abs.

Sam doesn’t say anything, but his thumb has gone still at the small of his back. The show’s gone back to commercial by the time he finally speaks.

“I could say the same for you.”

It’s a weak comeback and Dean would call him out on that, but then Sam’s giant hand is palming at _his_ chest, and he’s softer than Sam pretty much everywhere, but especially there, and it’s embarrassing in a _dirtybadhot_ way that he doesn’t want to examine right now. Or ever.

He grunts softly as Sam’s palm grazes his nipple. Noticing the reaction he’s elicited, Sam does it again, harder. Dean clamps his teeth down on his bottom lip to keep quiet, stubborn without any real reason, but his expression must be exactly what Sam wanted because he chuckles.

“Yeah,” he breathes, a faint smirk on his lips. “Yours are definitely better.”

Little fucker.

Dean growls and surges up to kiss him. Despite their awkward angle Sam melts easily underneath his lips. He slides his hand up from his chest to cup his chin gently, undemanding, seeking whatever Dean’s willing to give. His tongue slips between Dean’s lips to graze his palate, sending sparks down his spine. 

Dean’s cock fills rapidly. He tries to grind against the solid muscle of Sam’s thigh but the angle is all wrong. As if sensing his frustration, Sam tilts him back until Dean’s head is pillowed against his bicep, then moves to slip from beneath him to cover Dean’s body with his own. The second the rough denim of Sam’s jeans grazes his clothed cock Dean moans. Spurred on by the sound, Sam grinds down again, harder, and tightens his grip on Dean’s jaw to tilts his head to the side, forcing Dean’s mouth even wider for his tongue. 

The solid weight of Sam on top of him, the sure confidence of his fingers, the taste of his tongue—it’s all so fucking good that Dean belatedly remembers that _he’s_ the one who’s supposed to be in charge. 

With a jolt that jostles Sam’s grip on him, Dean flips them so that Sam is under him. Sam lets out a startled ‘oof’ but seems otherwise unbothered by the change. He lifts his hips up from his new position to grind his hips against Dean’s. He goes easily when Dean tugs at his arm to maneuver him farther up the bed so they won’t fall off and have to make a very embarrassing trip to the ER. 

Dean forces himself to pull away as he tugs clumsily at Sam’s shirt. “Come on, big guy. Off, off.”

Sam sits up, forcing Dean to scramble for purchase on his shoulders, and pulls off his shirt. Then he grabs the hem of Dean’s shirt and tugs roughly, ripping the shirt off of him and tossing it to the floor. Dean places a hand on Sam’s ridiculously wide chest and moves to push him down so they can get back to being vertical, but in an unexpected move Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and surges up to kiss him. 

And—yeah, it feels good, everything with Sam feels good, but Dean was trying to be assertive here, and it’s really hard to do that when he’s not so much on top of Sam as sitting on his lap. 

To make up for the change, Dean threads his fingers through Sam’s hair and tugs, earning a low and dirty moan as Sam’s head tilts back invitingly. Taking advantage of the position, Dean dives into the nip and suck at Sam’s bobbing Adam’s apple, drawing out another keen moan. 

Hands slide up and down Dean’s bare sides and squeeze at his love handles. He makes a startled noise that he quickly covers up with a cough.

“Chubby chaser,” he accuses.

“Only for you,” Sam throws back.

It’s a messy dash to get their pants and underwear off after that. _Sin Senos No Hay Paraíso_ has ended and some Latin infomercial has taken its place, but Dean hardly notices with Sam’s tongue is in his mouth and his hands finding their way from his love handles to his ass to knead the muscle there.

They’ve kissed and rubbed off on each other countless times. Dean is a man with needs and heavy putting hasn't satisfied since he was sixteen, but going to bed bone-loose and kissed raw after trading jobs with Sam has satisfied him just fine in the past. But this time it’s different. There’s no mistaking the intent behind these touches, these kisses. This is going somewhere new.

He pulls back so that he can look at Sam’s face. 

“We doing this?” Dean pants.

Sam licks his lips. “If you want to.”

“Do _you_ want to?” Dean presses, needing to hear Sam say it.

Sam gives him a bitchy, ‘No, duh’ look, tempered significantly by the fact that his hair’s a mess and his cock is rock hard. 

Adorable is what he is. 

Stopping to rub his nose against Sam’s, Dean whispers, “Okay. Roll over, I can prep you easier that way.”

He places a guiding hand on Sam’s shoulder to ease him down and around, but Sam doesn’t budge. In fact, Sam grabs his hand and pulls it off. Before Dean can wonder what the hell _that_ means, Sam links their fingers together and holds them between their rising chests. 

For a second Dean’s afraid he misread the situation, but as if reading his mind—or just knowing how trapped in his own head Dean can get sometimes—Sam shakes his head. 

“What if… what if I want to top?” 

Dean _laughs_. 

“No, Sam. No. _No_.” He laughs again, though it sounds just a bit hysterical. 

Sam frowns. “Why not?”

“Because I’m the big brother.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh, is there some rule that says being born first means you get to top?”

“Yes, there is. Glad that’s settled. Turn over.”

He pulls his hand out of Sam’s grip with a little more force than necessary and tries to push him down again. Again, Sam takes his hand and kinks their fingers. 

“I want to top,” he repeats petulantly. 

“Yeah? Well, I want a million dollars.”

“Really?” Sam whispers quietly, like a dirty little secret. “Because I think you want my cock.”

Dean jolts.. He squirms in Sam’s lap—god, why is he still in Sam’s lap?—and tries to roll them both over, get back in control of the situation. Unfortunately, Dean hasn’t been able to easily best Sam in sparring since he was nineteen, and it’s even harder to do when his cock is pink and leaking precome up against his brother’s abs.

“Sam,” he grunts, a warning and a plea all in one.

“You know, I didn’t see it at first,” he says casually like he’s talking about the weather and doesn't have a lapful of flustered big brother. “I thought yeah, of course, Dean’s the commanding bastard he’s always been. When we get there he’ll want to take the reins. But then I started noticing things.”

Sam brings those ridiculous fingers up to twist his right nipple, ripping a keening moan from Dean’s chest.

“Noticing things like—like when you suck my cock how into it you get it. I’ve never had anyone, man or woman, suck me off as enthusiastically as you do. And when I get carried away and push you down too far and choke, don’t get upset. In fact, you get this—look on your face, like you could come right then and there.”

Dean’s breaths come out quicker and more shallow. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Sam goads. 

He is, but for some reason Dean can’t.

“I think you like being the one lavished with attention.”

Dean’s face burns. “Don’t say ‘lavished with attention,’ it makes you sound pretentious,”

Two fingers prod at the soft opening of Dean’s lips and his mouth opens instinctively to wrap around them. Sam fucks this fingers in gently, a smug smile firmly in place. 

“I think you want my cock, but I need to hear you say it.”

Bravado deepens Sam’s voice, but Dean can see the question in his brother’s kaleidoscope eyes. Sam’s giving him an out and he knows he should take, but dammit if every bit of what Sam’s said leaves him feeling hot and exposed. 

Suddenly, he remembers that time a case took them to Vegas on a slam dunker salt-and-burn. They’d wrapped it up nice and easy, and Sam was in such a good mood that he didn’t put up a fight when Dean suggested they hit a craps table or two before they trucked it back to Kansas.

Sam let him went a couple of hands at poker before they retreated to the bar where he spotted a long-legged twink in a tight pair of designer jeans. The man he was hanging off of was taller and older, hair slicked back and an air that practically oozed New Money. Dean remembers that feeling of embarrassment for him, how painfully obvious it was that the kid was just a plaything. But—the wild part was that the kid seemed to _know_ it. He knew what he was there for and didn’t care that everyone in the room knew it, too. Hell, he probably hoped they did.

Dean doesn’t know why he thinks about that couple now, because this isn’t anything like that, it’s _not_. _They’re_ not. But then he remembers how Sam had put his hand on the back of Dean’s neck when he caught him staring at the couple too long, and how he had kept it there through the whole time they were at the bar. He wonders, now, if the others in the bar had looked at them the way he’d looked at that kid—like they knew he belonged to someone, and that he loved it.

Face red, cock leaking overstimulated and close to passing out, Dean shuts his eyes and groans, “Jesus fucking Christ, Sam.”

Sam tightens his arms around Dean’s middle. “Say it, Dean. I need to hear you say it.”

Dean throws his arm over his eyes. A sudden, irrational need to hide his desperation from Sam even though he’s probably broadcasting it in technicolor with how obvious it is. 

“I want your cock, okay? I want your fucking cock.”

In a blink, he’s out of Sam’s lap and on his back. Sam leans in and bites down hard on his collarbone hard enough to leave a mark and Dean keens.

“Don’t—don’t fucking giving me a _hickey_ ,” he manages to huff. His face is on fire and his cock is leaking, but damn if he doesn’t have his pride. “We’re not in middle school, Sam.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say; for a split second, he envisions Sam at thirteen, scrawny and floppy-haired and mad at the world. Then Sam bites down even harder on the same spot and his mind goes blank.

No, this isn’t skinny little Sammy. This is Sam, confident and broad and built like a brick fucking shithouse. This Sam grips his thighs with sure hands and folds him in half like it’s nothing. 

“Hold yourself open for me,” Sam command, soft but firm. 

Dean grabs his thighs and holds them apart to expose his hole to his brother’s hungry eyes. His blush has extended to his chest, and, fuck, what a picture he must make? Blushing pretty pink with his ankles over his ears and practically begging for his baby brother’s cock. 

They’ve fooled around enough for Sam to know that Dean stashes his lube in the third drawer of his nightstand. With Dean holding himself open Sam rubs soothing patterns into the skin of his thigh as he slides his first finger in. It’s tight and wet, and Sam keeps up a low, rumbling litany of _“You like that? Good, good, just—perfect. You’re perfect. I've got you, Dean. So good for me”_ that makes his chest swell and burst with praise. Dean adjusts quickly enough that by the time Sam eases a second finger alongside the first his thighs are trembling from more than just the exertion of keeping himself open and displayed for same. 

“More,” he moans, clumsy and embarrassed but so, so turned on. “More, Sammy, _please_.”

Sam growls and shoves in a third finger without preamble, fucking into Dean with a growing sense of urgency. The sloppy wet sound of Sam’s fingers inside of him is so dirty and hot. Dean keens, body aflame with want threatening to eat him out from the inside. 

Before he can articulate that he’s _ready, dammit, Sammy just go_ , Sam gets with the program. In one smooth motion, he pulls his fingers out—and Dean has the pleasure of experiencing true, devastating emptiness—and then he’s sliding his cock in, easy as you please. 

They both moan in low, guttural harmony. Fingers slick with sweat and muscles heavy, Dean lets his thighs slip from his grip to reach up and grab at Sam’s shoulders. Sam slips his hands underneath Dean’s thighs and hoists him open like he weighs nothing to support him. When did his baby brother get so strong?

“Wish you could see yourself. So good like this,” Sam grunts as he rocks inside, setting a slow but hard rhythm that makes Dean feel so open, so fucking _slutty_. 

He’s leaking precome and they’ve barely even _started_. 

“Look at you,” Sam whispers, “you fucking love this, love getting fucked open on my cock. Don’t you?”

Dean aches everywhere Sam isn’t touching. He’s drenched, sweat mingling with precome and lube making obscene noises where their skin slaps together. He’s never felt so incredibly full in his life, and as the pressure builds up from the base of his spine to send shockwaves between his legs, Dean is certain he will never be the same again. Sam has carved a permanent space for himself inside of him. 

He can tell when Sam’s getting close by how erratic his thrusts become. The fingers gripping his skin are tight enough to leave bruises that Dean knows he’ll find while in the shower tomorrow. He’s on the precipice himself, sure he’s going to explode if Sam move just a _little bit more_ —

Then Sam leans down and whispers into his ear, “Little cockslut,” and Dean comes so hard he whites out. 

Sam’s hips stutter and drive home with one hard thrust as he follows suit. He collapses in a sweaty pile on top of him, knocking the air out of Dean's lungs. He swats at Sam’s back and tries to mumble “Off, dammit,” but the words come out in an incoherent jumble. 

Luckily for him, Sam can speak thoroughly-fucked-out Dean; he rolls off just enough to push Dean further up the bed until they’re arranged in some semblance of an after-sex cuddle, because even after coming in his ass Sam is still such a fucking pussy. 

Their panting breaths mingle with the sound of a commercial on TV for his and hers bathtubs. Dean wants to make a cheesy joke about how they should buy a pair to keep the magic alive when they’re too old to fuck like this anymore, but there’s a long walk to that joke he’s too tired to get to right now.

Instead, he buries his nose into Sam’s shoulder and sighs. Sleepy and half out of his mind, he mumbles, “I’m supposed to be on top.” Because a man has his pride. 

Sam laughs, and it sounds sleepy and far away. “Next time, Dean. Next time.”


End file.
